personally, i think it is criminal for the one (1) mutant w an actual spade on the end of his tail not to have a garden so he has one now, thank u
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@krovidym
personally, i think it is criminal for the one (1) mutant w an actual spade on the end of his tail not to have a garden so he has one now, thank u
whoooooo knew ddk was south korean? not me! not until awhile ago. anyway tho,,, az’s fc is changing from ddk to tony leung kafai :0
short post for expansion later; azazel is a name that has only been very recently acquired. he took it up as a moniker around 1936ish and hasn't bothered with anything different since then
This Sunday hike, Gutai Mountains, Romania.
Anthony Doerr, All the Light We Cannot See
sapphirescales:
HER HEAD TWISTS while he talks, so her cheek rests on his chest. one ear for his words and the other for the beat of his heart, strong and reassuring. constant. alive. “i’m glad,” she says, quietly. “i am so glad that you lived, and that you’re here today.”
it’s strange to think that she’s somehow made such an impact in his life. enough that he would come looking for her, enough that he draws her closer to him like this. she had never imagined such softness coming from him but, more importantly, she’d never thought that he would want to be soft, let alone for her. her eyes watch their twined fingers, red over blue over red, and marvels at the change. five years doesn’t seem like such a long time until she’s here, curled up in the lap of a man that had once haunted her nightmares.
raven pulls back to look at him, meets his blue eyes with her own gold, red-rimmed. there’s something swimming in the depths of her gaze. you are never forgotten, no matter where on earth you may be. she is here with azazel now, but she can’t stay here forever. “the people that did this to me did worse to erik.”
there’s a pause, something vulnerable crossing her features for a few seconds before she meets his gaze again, jaw hard. her hands, when they cup his face, brings their skin to contrast again. his hand, still entwined in one of hers, rises too. their faces are close, and she’s closer than she’s ever been. her bullet wounds ache from the effort, and there’s a fine tremble down her spine but not all of that is pain. in spite of the dried tear tracks on her face, in spite of the way her eyes are still red-rimmed and puffy, in spite of the occasional hitch in her breath —— there is no mercy in her expression. no forgiveness. “i’m going to find him. and then i’m going to make them pay. every single person responsible for this is going to die.” her thumbs find his cheekbones and brush over them, gentle.
“will you be by my side?”
THE STORY OF his alliance with sebastian shaw is one of opportunity and an inferno of anger, of mutually parasitic advantages and insurmountable hatred. he’s since healed from the political betrayals that led shaw to him and long since worked out his own agendas and separated them from the grandiose delights of a supremacist, but his personal loyalties have not once been asked of him in all that time. even the shift from shaw to lehnsherr saw to it that his peripheral existence remained steadfast––he was a means to an end, a way from there to there without worrying about legality, and being a weapon in an arsenal suited his preoccupied temper enough for contentment for the standing status quo. after all, he lived in terms of decades and his resentment of mutant injustices held enough patience, too, that the desire for immediacy in war against stagnated humanity was tempered considerably when he held himself apart.
perhaps it is the time and the place, or simply raven herself and the hardened, battle-worn resolve in her shimmering, golden eyes, but those loyalties, untouched through years and years, unmoved from only himself and his own wants, shift like a cracked and falling cliff boulder until with a suddenness that has his expression opening into a fervent avidity, he knows she’s changed him irrevocably. he’d asked her once if she could metamorphosize things other than herself, but at the time he hadn’t realized he’d been talking about himself.
it only takes a moment before he’s nodding, saying: “Yes.” and smoothing his hand out until it’s flat over hers, over his face. this, then, does stem from the place and all his memories embedded in each stone tile of the compound because a vow like this he’s not ever given like he’s offered his allegiances and cooperation. “My swords, they are yours to direct. Whatever you need.”
me, going into drafts, seeing about 25 posts filled with snippets of random az dialogue: stop,,, stop talking
some faves so i can clear my drafts:
emma is very forceful, does not want me to forget single thing about her. that is why i know so much.
we are each our own.
no man can say what you do. only you say what you do.
what you want is most important. do you know what it is?
men have strange definition for us. most call me their devil, like satan. it is silly. i do not have cloven hooves, but they see tail and skin and run, screaming for priest.
you live for so long a time and you do not quite remember important things, only interesting ones.
many times have i thought the same. now you have that feeling, and i am sad for you because of it.
me, going into drafts, seeing about 25 posts filled with snippets of random az dialogue: stop,,, stop talking
+ @collectiiive
he’s misstepped through space only a few times before, and he does it again now, but his drunken head is too addled to care about how he should really be a professional about teleportation, after a good two hundred or so odd years of doing it consistently. he’s not sure why he’s drunk, but he remembers someone somewhere holding up a shot and yelling for celebration, so even though he wasn’t a part of the raucous, drunken crowd down below in the square he’d been watching, he’d felt festive and joined in, perhaps a little too willingly and a little too hard because he’s standing, swaying, in a foyer he doesn’t recognize. it’s new, being in a place he doesn’t know. he’s never let himself jump to void spaces before, and he hums under his breath while he ruminates on the end foot of his tail not having jumped with him, brows furrowed and feeling wistful, not bothering to pay attention to the rest of his surroundings.
+ @mutantism
there are too many bottles scattered around his tiny card table and they are obscuring the view of his haphazard game of seven devils. in his attempts to move them around without ruining his stacks, a hearted five flutters off the table and when he reaches out to catch it, he blinks, and it’s gone in a gusted whoosh of smoke and an audible crackle of fire. as his monkey brain doesn’t have the sober space to register that he’s never before been able to jump something without going along with it, he just swears loudly, rough and caustic, and takes himself along to where he can feel the energy dissipate, like following after a limb that’s walked off by itself. so intent on the chase, he doesn’t notice he’s looming over the side of erik’s bed until he’s blinking into sleep-worn blue eyes and has a hand fisted in the bedcovers as he reaches across to the other pillow for the card lying pristine and pretty on top.
+ @sapphirescales
he’s sitting in the shadows of a church spire with the world blurred out half a bottle ago, mood darker than the night shrouded around the new but bustling city of obninsk, when suddenly, with a hiccup, he’s not in russia anymore. rarely has he ever stumbled, but the jump startles him––enough so that the first thing he does is smash the bottle in his left hand against the wall and wield it forward, right covering his mouth as he hiccups again. the bright south american sun slants over his face and he snorts down a gust of laughter. he’s back in san marco in who knows which safehouse, but even plastered, he can sense three bodies in the space... or is that four? a child? he sways dangerously backwards, thinking about it.
ummm ummmmmmm unmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmm i suppose if u like this for a starter azazel will come into your bedroom at night drunk off his ass looking for Something that is Obviously Not You and Someone that is Obviously Not There
sapphirescales:
USED TO REJECTION, used to folding her emotions down into a box in the corner of her mind, she almost flinches when she’s disentangled. it leaves her flayed and raw and unstable, the sudden realization of having misstepped, of having miscalculated flashing across her face like a burn. she starts to scramble back – move away and give him ( and herself ) distance, to try and compose herself – but finds herself stopped.
stuck for space as he takes a seat next to her. surprised when, instead of the rebuke she expects, he pulls her closer. her nose, pressed against the collar of his shirt, her face hidden from view, where she doesn’t have to worry about what she looks like to him, or about exposing herself to him like a nerve ending. his arms, blocking out the light – a shield, all on their own. his hands, in her hair. soft. gentle.
her heart aches from the kindness of it.
i will never fault you for it. when had she felt safe enough to do this? when was the last time that she had been this open with someone, without the fear of her emotions being used against her? to manipulate her against erik or against charles or against the brotherhood —- or against her own convictions?
she doesn’t even realize when her vision blurs or when she starts again, not until she tries to breathe and finds it difficult. a deep, shuddering breath. raven crying loudly is a rarity, an action borne of frustration; she is silent, now, except for the hitched breath, the smothered, wet noises that slip out occasionally. she grips him tight, tight enough that it must hurt a little, building up over time, but he doesn’t complain.
when she stops, what could be minutes or hours later, she still feels raw and flayed wide open. she feels like her emotions could still tip too easily into something chaotic and grief-like.
but she feels … better. than she has in a long while.
still not trusting herself to look at his face, she whispers. “i didn’t think i was gonna leave that place. i thought i was – that i’d die there. and no one would ever – ”
IT IS TOO easy to rest his chin on the top of her head and stay that way for the time it takes her tears to dry up, for her body to stop shaking, and for her voice to come back. azazel is generally a patient man, long accustomed to waiting things through (it makes him an excellent sniper, an excellent watchman, an excellent point guard,) and so it is no trouble at all for him to wait for raven to find a stable piece of herself, enough to let her continue forward. he could stay this way for hours if she wanted. (it is worrisome how easily raven fits within his arms, how easily the press of her against him has become a familiar, wanted heat.)
“death is terrible thing to make acquaintance with,” he answers, “she is never kind, but in time, i think, we do grow stronger to her greed.” it’s nothing but a platitude to fill the silence, but it is one such thing he had wanted to hear, once upon a time, and he hopes it soothes something for her, calms a fraying nerve. he smooths a hand down her arm and tangles their fingers together after a breath of silence. “i’ve thought as you did many times. once in kolyma, for nearly a year, i was kept sick and half-dead. i did not think i would live, but i did, as have you.”
his voice is a quiet rumble, unused to bearing much of himself or his experiences to the open ears of another. fumbling for a connection. grasping at dark and tangled threads to weave themselves together. he thinks he might split himself open like a melon and offer all of himself on a platter to her, if he thought it would help.
“should you ever want to leave a place,” he says more firmly, feeling emboldened, wanting her to know these things he thinks. for what good it would do for her. “i will take you elsewhere. you, raven, are memorable to many, myself most of all, and you are never forgotten, no matter where on earth you may be.”
an easy promise for a complicated wound. he knows how little it means, knows how it is a simple rag to a bloodied, gaping maw, knows his fallibility and his incompetence with such things. knows but offers anyway. he had wanted to be more, so what is there now but to try?
ruinaa:
she tears her attention away from the table – emma’s gearing herself up for the kill, and if josephine were erik, she’d be wary – to focus on azazel. her eyes slide from him to the bag and back again before she takes a few in her hand.
under her breath,
“i bet i could hit him square in the eye with a shell.”
his lips thin, his head tilts. he studies emma’s offensive posture as she slams her hands against the steel table, fingertips shifted into diamond so all the room reverberates with her violence.
he pops more of his snack into his mouth, leaning into ruin’s space.
“would not be wise, now, probably, to take emma’s spotlight.”
his tail swipes back and forth in the air around their ankles.
“dare you to throw down riptide’s shirt.”
sapphirescales:
SHE’S ALMOST FIGHTING back too hard to hear his words, but she does. the familiarity of his voice takes a second or so to filter through, the same way her eyes start to adjust to the light. deep crimson, tail around her calf, a hand pressed into her chest. his eyes, electric blue and narrowed and so familiar, freeze her in place.
you are safe. you are here with me.
the feeling strikes her, suddenly. she has not felt safe in a long time, since long before the warehouse. since long before their safehouses, and long before they were found in new york. her paranoia, the constant terror thrumming under her skin, born in that year after cuba, the poison teeth sinking into bone. you are safe. you are here with me.
raven has never confused azazel with safety. but here, in the dark of this room, with his hand pressed against her, though she is still, he feels like safety. like shelter. it is childish, the way her throat tightens and her eyes burn, the way her breath catches in her chest, wet and choked. her hands let go of his forearms and travel down the length of one until her fingers meet his. unfurls his hand from her chest, gives her room to move.
“azazel,” she says, and it’s a tremulous sound in her mouth. her entire being is trembling. he has told her to stay still – and she can feel the blood seeping into her bandages – but she will bleed even if she doesn’t move, and she needs this more. another weakness, another childishness that makes her lean forward until her forehead is pressed against his chest. her hands come up to grip his shirt tightly as another shake trembles across her shoulders.
later, she will be embarrassed for the way she clutches at him, for the tears pricking her eyes and sliding down her cheeks – all relief and pent up fear – and she will be embarrassed for the way she slides herself closer. moves until her hands don’t have to clutch his shirt anymore and can pull at him, instead, into something that she can vehemently deny is an embrace. you are safe, he had said, you are here with me.
raven holds him tighter.
THIS IS WHAT he has wanted since the moment he lifted her into his arms and fled far away from the sweltering summer plains of middle north america. this is what he has wanted for the week following where she remained too still and too silent and too cold. now, she is nothing of the limp weight he had pressed closely to his body, nothing of the clammy, blood-slick almost-corpse he had brought into his home. a wave of clean confidence washes over him like a strong forest waterfall, and the incessant knot of worry he has carried since even before magneto and mystique had set off from new york eases enough he could pick at the threads and unravel it entirely.
she will live. she is alive, so alive, trembling against his chest. it is a steadying thought, a steadying feeling. when she had become so precious to him––enough to bring her here, enough to let thoughts of only her overshadow all else, enough to unfurl parts of himself to her so completely––he does not know, and he cares little to examine it.
were he a stranger to the absence of terror following should-have-been fatalities and the crushing, desperate flood of relief, he might have denied her this, pushed her back into recumbency, sought out a doctor, or, at the least, returned her to familiar faces, but he thinks he will be very selfish for awhile longer. he has felt the same tremors, the same breaks, the same crush. he wants her here, so he can be the validation he was never afforded.
azazel lets her crowd closely to him, lets her pull at his shirt and then at his neck, all the while thinking too much. he decides, in the end, to give more than the simple, omnipresent hand of protection he had been sheltered with as a boy and young man. to be more. that’s what he decides.
azazel sweeps his hand over the back of her head where she rests against his collar, then disentangles her grip from him. pulling her back enough to wipe at the tears falling down her face, he then sits himself on the bed, and the wooden frame creaks, the sheets rustle. his tail unwinds from her calf and the swordsman draws her into him across his lap, wrapping her in strong arms and a silent promise of continuous refuge.
“It is best to cry, I have found,” he muses quietly as he threads fingers through her mussed hair. “After–––after. I will never fault you for it.”
ruinaa:
“– — what.”
he slides up next to her while another argument breaks out between the brotherhood meeting table. silently, he offers her some of his sunflower seeds, grinning broadly.
@ruinaa slowly pokes w tail